


The Worst Fairytale Ever Lived

by PrincessSlayer



Category: 10th Kingdom, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Animal Transformation, Awkward Conversations, Camping, Fairy Tales, Interdimensional Travel, M/M, Magic, Slow Build, enchanted forests
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-20
Updated: 2012-09-13
Packaged: 2017-11-12 14:09:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincessSlayer/pseuds/PrincessSlayer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles takes one wrong step in Beacon Hills Preserve and somehow ends up in an actual fairy tale, where he holds regular conversations with birds and lizards, and still the weirdest thing about it all is that when Derek Hale – gold medalist in the art of lurking and amateur collector of underage misfits - gets dragged along with him, everyone keeps acting like he’s supposed to be there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this happened. Fairly canon-compliant despite the fact that I began it before the end of season 2.

# 1

##  _

In Which Our Heroes Take a Walk and Have an Unsatisfactory Conversation with a Bird

_

_I need to write that down_ , Stiles thought regretfully, staring up at the sky from the flat of his back. _Don’t ever step in anything that sparkles._

He heard dim shouting over the ringing in his ears. With a not inconsiderable effort he rolled over in the direction of the sound. He could see his backpack where it had landed when he fell out of the sky, upside-down tangled in a thick patch of wickedly thorny bushes. Stiles felt a brief surge of gratitude to whatever spat him out of the sky for not spitting him out three feet to the right.

“Stiles!” shouted Derek fucking Hale as he crawled out of the brush, a leaf sticking out from behind his ear and rapidly-healing scratches on his arms. “What did you do?”

Stiles raised himself up on one elbow and groaned again as he heard something in his back give a vague _pop_. “I didn’t do anything! I put my foot on the ground, that’s it.”

“Where did the others go?”

Derek waved his hand at their surroundings as if Stiles had not in fact noticed that he was no longer standing between Scott and Jackson. Or in Beacon Hills, for that matter, Stiles realized after he sat up and looked around, because this was definitely not the cave by the river that had become the de facto pack meeting hall. _Definitely never poking anything sparkly and glowing ever again._

“I don’t know, dude,” he sighed, dragging himself to his feet. He yanked his backpack out of the tangle of branches and checked his phone. “No signal.”

“You mean no bars?” Derek asked, looking over his shoulder.

“No, I mean I don’t even think my phone knows it’s a phone anymore.” Stiles frowned. “Well –“

“If any of the words in your next sentence are ‘Toto’ or ‘Kansas,’ I swear to God, Stiles.”

“You take all the fun out of potentially life-threatening situations.” Stiles squinted up at the sky. “There’s still one sun, so it’s not Tattooine. Plus – “ he waved his arm, “trees.”

“Why aren’t you freaking out about this?” Derek’s voice was getting louder and angrier with every word. “We have no idea where we are or where Scott and Jackson went!”

“I don’t know the rules! There are _werewolves_ and _lizard people_ , why wouldn’t there be magic cave portals? That’s not a thing?”

“This is not a thing!” Derek shouted. “This doesn’t happen! I’ve never taken a step and ended up somewhere completely different before! No one has!”

“Well, clearly it did happen,” Stiles said, slowly turning in a circle to look around. It was daytime, so Stiles was at least _less_ likely to be eaten by a grue. “So it’s a thing now. Uh. I really hope I didn’t leave a burner on or anything.”

“What is _wrong_ with you?” snapped Derek, apparently deciding that yelling at Stiles was his preferred stress relief technique.

“Time-delayed panic, probably. You should definitely watch out if we haven’t woken up in our respective beds in three hours or so because I might implode.” Maybe earlier than three hours. “It’ll be like a dying star. I’ll take you down with me.” He coughed. “We should probably, like, pick a direction and see if we can find some help.”

“Why?” Stiles had never seen anyone literally dig their heels in before. “We should stay here.”

“Look, you can stand here and yell for Heimdall to open the Bifrost all you want, but,” Stiles pointed back at the Stiles-shaped indentation in the grass. “I don’t see anything glowing back there, which means whatever spat us out isn’t going to spit us back. Did you see any fairy dust or anything in that bush you crawled out of? Because if you did, _awesome_ , I’ll go sit in the bush with you and wait for the portal home, but if not, we need to pick a direction and walk.”

 

An hour of walking had led them to a dirt road that looked suspiciously like the roads from Stiles’ third grade field trip to Amish country. He’d already dipped into his emergency Red Vines that he kept in the bottom of his backpack – only one, because, you know, field rationing – but Stiles was pretty sure he was due for some panic.

“Are we taking turns freaking out? Because I want it to be my turn now.”

“We’re taking turns being silent,” grumped Derek. “You’re not very good at it.”

“But are we in Amish country? I _really_ like zippers and television and internet porn, and the only explanation I can come up with for _carriage_ ruts is like, pre-industrial society. Do you think we time traveled?” Stiles gulped for air.

“You’re just making sounds.”

“Yeah, well, I left my white noise machine in the future.”

Derek stopped in the middle of the road and clapped a hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “Stiles,” he said evenly and firmly. “I have no idea what is going on.”

“I kind of got that – “

“It is not your turn. You need to calm down or I will find the Amish equivalent of train tracks to leave you on.” Derek released his grip and resumed walking, leaving Stiles to gape at his retreating back.

“Hey!” he said, skipping forward to catch up. “That was a joke. Did you do that just to make me feel better?”

“No.”

 

A half an hour and two more Red Vines later (field rationing can only go so far), Derek was the first to spot the puff of smoke in the distance. (“There!” “Where?” “Right there!” “You’re a werewolf, that’s cheating!” etc.) Another half an hour later and they rounded a bend to find a cottage. Stiles’ heart thudded, prompting a quick glance and a querying eyebrow from the wolf, who Stiles had never thought of as particularly nosy before.

“Nothing,” he muttered. “Just…cottage. Orchard. One point time travel. Unless they’re magic apples.”

The path to the cottage did nothing to ease the knots in Stiles’ stomach. The carriage ruts had smoothed out and were barely distinguishable from the grass they passed through. The cottage, Stiles could see now, was abandoned. An overturned cart lay beside the front door and he could see the rafters of the house through holes in the thatched roof. Moss furred the stone walls and vines curled around where moss didn’t reach. He looked at Derek out of the corner of his eye, knowing his eyes would have caught this long before Stiles’ could. Derek’s face was inscrutable. Stiles looked away, back to the path leading to the neglected structure ahead.

On the plus side, there were also no landing strips for alien spaceships or velociraptors in armor, so there was that.

“I’m not sure about this,” Derek said quietly as they stopped in front of the oaken door. “This place…”

“Yeah.” Stiles nodded. “I know.”

“There’s something off…the smell…” he trailed off, frowning. “There’s no one here.”

The door swung open with a soft ree, revealing a room overrun with weeds and covered in a thick, even layer of dust and cobwebs. The air smelled sickly sweet, like sugar and rot, and Derek coughed behind him.

“I don’t suppose we’ll find apple pie or anything,” Stiles said weakly, looking around at the crumbling walls. A squirrel scowled down at them from the top of a bookshelf and leapt out through a hole in the roof with an indignant squawk. Stiles took a book down and wiped the dust from the cover with his elbow, leaving a furry stripe on his sleeve. “ _The History of the Nine Kingdoms_ ,” he read aloud, puzzling.

“Stiles.”

There was a terrifying note in Derek’s voice, and Stiles turned, not really wanting to know why.

“Oh, this is way worse,” Stiles said unnecessarily, staring open-mouthed at the table and the half-finished sign Derek had just uncovered.

  
 _****_

_CIDER MADE BY ROYAL APPOINTMENT_

_of KING WENDELL_

_OF THE HOUSE OF WHITE_

_GRANDSON OF QUEEN SNOW WHITE_

 

Stiles didn’t remember sitting down or maybe falling down, but he must have because suddenly he found himself on the floor, breathing in dust and pollen. He heard a ragged breath and with one foot shoved one of the chairs aside so he could see under the table.

Derek sat against the opposite wall, arms folded over his chest and legs stretched out across the floor and the only thing Stiles could think of to describe the whole picture was that Derek was having himself a little werewolf sulk.

He was weighing the merits of blind panic versus a _Land of the Lost_ joke when he was startled by a high-pitched squeak that definitely did not come from Derek’s side of the table.

“Oh, how delightful! I was afraid you two would be long gone by now!”

Stiles tried not to be insulted by the fact that Derek looked at him first, like that noise could have come from _his_ mouth, before looking up at the hole in the roof to see a tiny glittering bird perched at the edge of the rafter.

“Hallo!” the bird said before swooping down to land on the table between them. “I’m so sorry to be this late but I got terribly delayed. Now,” it addressed an open-mouthed Stiles, “are you the wolf?”

Stiles swallowed a hysterical laugh and shook his head as he gestured across to a seething Derek. “Sorry, no wolves on this side of the table.”

The bird hopped around and peered down its beak at Derek. “Oh! Of course.” The chirp it made sounded suspiciously like the bird version of snickering. “That makes a good deal more sense.”

“Who are you?” Derek asked.

“Forgive my manners!” The bird ruffled its feathers. “I am called Eilin! I was told that a wolf had arrived and I was dispatched immediately to start you on your path!”

“My _path_?” repeated Derek. “What path?”

Stiles pinched his arm, because there was no way he was actually watching Derek Hale have a conversation with a magic talking bird.

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Eilin. “You don’t know?”

Derek rose slowly from the ground. “I don’t even know where we are.”

For someone who, to Stiles, never seemed to have his shit together, Derek seemed pretty damn uncomfortable with the words “I don’t know.”

“Oh dear.” Eilin fixed his bright, sharp eyes on Stiles. “Do you not know either?”

“I – “ Stiles waved a hand in the general direction of the sign on the table. “I can guess? Once upon a time land or something, but specifically, no. Uh. Total accident, not by choice, stepped in a weird thing in a cave, boom. Magic.”

Jazz hands probably weren’t helpful illustration points, but there they went anyway.

“Oh my goodness!” Eilin sounded taken aback. “My great-great-great-great grandmother once told me a story about something like this. Well, I don’t suppose it makes much of a difference either way!”

“What do you mean?” Derek asked, a healthy level of annoyance edging back into his voice.

“You’re going to have to speak with the red woman at Bear Inn!” Eilin sounded entirely too delighted to deliver this information. “All the lost wolves go to her!”

“Why?” asked Stiles, scrambling to his feet and speaking before Derek had a chance to open his mouth. “Why her? Where’s Bear Inn?”

“What do you mean _lost_ wolves?” added Derek, sounding insulted.

“So many questions!” Eilin tittered. “You’ll find Bear Inn on the road to Lamb Town if you go north through the Enchanted Forest,” (“The what,” growled Derek) “but you must be careful to stay off the Queen’s Road. It’s not safe for you! Good luck!”

“Are you _kidding_ me?” yelled Stiles as Eilin shot up out through the roof faster than he thought possible. “COME BACK! WE HAVE MORE QUESTIONS!”

Stiles stared up at the round patch of sky where Eilin had just been a fraction of a second earlier, before locking eyes with Derek over the table. Stiles looked away after a second, unable to stomach the dread and uncertainty on Derek’s face. The silence seemed to balloon between them like a weight pressing against Stiles’ lungs.

“Well, that,” Stiles began hurriedly, “that was just ridiculous. Totally not enough information. I have way too many questions now.” He flipped open the book he had been clutching white-knuckled in his right hand. “Like, where is the Enchanted Forest, for one. What’s the Queen’s Road? What happens if we leave the path? Do we die or is it just like swimming during a thunderstorm - not smart but not a death sentence either? And most importantly,” Stiles snapped the book closed and looked up at Derek with a determined smile. “How the fuck did that bird learn English?”

Derek let out a huff that was almost like a laugh. A laugh’s cousin, maybe. “Night classes.”

“You think? I bet wonderland has a shit community college.” Stiles brushed dust and cobwebs off his jeans. “C’mon. Let’s blow this joint.”

“We should keep the book,” Derek said as Stiles moved to leave it on the table. “Might be useful.”

“Right,” Stiles said, sliding it across the table to a startled Derek, who caught it before it slipped off the edge. “See if you can find anything in there.”

Stiles kicked the door frame on the way out. It scuffed his boot and hurt his toe and didn’t make him feel even a little better. Fuck.

“So which way is the Enchanted Forest?” he asked, barely able to keep his fingers from forming air quotes.

“There’s no map,” sighed Derek, closing the book and handing it back to Stiles. “But it’s probably that way,” he said, nodding his head beyond the orchard. “The air smells different.”

“What, you smell the blood of fairies or something?” Stiles grumbled, stuffing the book in his backpack. He took a few cautious steps into the grove after Derek. The trees seemed to close in the deeper they walked, but he could still see patches of blue sky between the where the knotted branches choked out the light. “Is it just me or is this the creepiest orchard you’ve ever been in? Not that I’ve had much experience.”

Stiles wandered towards the nearest tree, placing his hand gingerly on the blackened trunk. He expected the burnt bark to feel brittle but it wasn’t, it was tough and strong. The boughs above him were heavy with apples, dark red and glossy, more beautiful than anything Stiles had ever seen. He reached up and closed his hand around the lowest one, popping it off the branch with a ripe snap.

Stiles rubbed his thumb idly along the curve of the apple, feeling the smooth red skin as he glanced over at Derek. The fruit felt so full in his grasp, almost swollen.

He was just about to sink his teeth into the apple’s crisp flesh when suddenly Derek gripped the back of his neck like a vise, startling him into letting the fruit slip from his fingers. It hit the ground and rolled away, nestling in the crook of a tree root.

“Don’t eat those,” Derek growled, his breath hot on Stiles’ neck. “They don’t smell right.”

“You’ve got to be fucking _kidding_ me,” Stiles yelped as Derek released him. He wiped his hands on his jeans and shook out his limbs, shuddering. Derek looked at him steadily but Stiles just cracked his neck, rolled his shoulders and gestured ahead for Derek to lead.


	2. Chapter 2

# 2

#  _In Which Derek and Stiles Go Hiking_

“So this is the Enchanted Forest.”

Stiles felt like a tour guide on his first day on the job in a city he’d never been and Derek was the grumpiest tour group of one, sulking in the back of the bus.

“Looks like,” replied Derek shortly, looking up and down the forest front.

“We just head on through?” Stiles asked, following his gaze.

“Looks like,” repeated Derek.

“Do we know if this is actually north?” Stiles squinted up at the sky as if a sixteen year-old from California could suddenly develop Crocodile Dundee skills under dire circumstances.         

“The bird said north through the woods and this is _through_ the woods.” Derek shot him a challenging look. “Unless you want to stay here and talk about it some more?”

“What do they _call_ this kind of thing?” Stiles asked, still staring down the boundary of the forest. “It’s been nothing but field for the last however long and then suddenly, boom, full-on forest. Isn’t there a name for that? Like a lower altitude tree line?”

“Probably. Didn’t you pay attention in biology class?”

“Didn’t _you_?” Stiles scratched his head. “You’re supposed to be older and wiser. Did the public school system fail you so badly that you need to ask a teenager your science questions?”

“Are you done?”

“Maybe it has to do with the fact that it’s enchanted. You spend a lot of time lurking in the woods. Is this normal?”

Maybe Stiles was imagining the muscle tic in Derek’s cheek.

But probably not.

“I don’t know _anything_ about magic trees,” said Derek crossly, “except that we have to walk through them, and we have a lot of ground to cover, so _let’s go_.”

Stiles snorted. “Are you _specifically_ choosing your words so you can avoid calling it the Enchanted Forest?”

“I’ll lead,” said Derek, predictably ignoring him. “Be careful where you step.”

“Absolutely,” Stiles said, carefully placing his feet in Derek’s footprints as he took a few cautious steps into the forest. “Simba walk. No problem.”

 

The sky had been bright and sunny when Stiles and Derek took their first steps into the Enchanted Forest but in almost no time the sunlight had all but disappeared, reduced to the occasional dappled pattern on the mossy floor. The trees had seemed impossibly large to Stiles from the edge of the forest but they only grew in size the deeper they went. They passed a tree that had a hollow in its trunk that might have been large enough to fit a ten year old Stiles, if he tucked his knees up to his chest. He almost wanted to try it now and paused to examine at the shockingly bright purple flowers growing inside the hollow and before he knew it Derek was at least thirty feet ahead. Some of the tree trunks were wound around and around with thick vines, so thick and study they almost like trees themselves, wrapped chokingly tight. Some had knots that almost looked like there might be bright beady eyes inside, watching Stiles trail behind Derek like a baby duck.

The more they walked the more Stiles felt like everything they passed had eyes. He couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched. It felt like his scalp was crawling and he was almost sure that if he turned his head at just the right moment he’d be able to catch whatever it was looking straight at him. The forest itself seemed to be a living, breathing thing. The leaves above them rustled in time like the rising and falling of a sleeping man’s chest. The air was thick in Stiles’ lungs, not humid, but thick with something else. _Magic_ , Stiles thought hesitantly _,_ he might be breathing magic. It raised the hair on the back of his neck and he wondered if Derek felt it too. He opened his mouth to ask but the words caught in his throat. Saying the words out loud, asking Derek _hey, do you feel like magic eyes are watching everything we do_ seemed like it was on an entirely new level of insane, one he didn’t really want to level up to just yet.

Neither of them spoke much. Derek carefully picked his way around enormous gnarled root knees and Stiles matched him step for step, studiously avoiding looking into tree knots and hollows. The dim forest light grew darker and Stiles almost reached for his phone to check the time but his hand froze halfway through the motion. He wondered what time it really was, if it was different back home, and whether his dad was home from work. It was takeout night – would he realize Stiles was gone when he called upstairs for him to call in the order? Would he check all the rooms? Would he trace Stiles’ phone or call Scott before calling the station? He felt like the air had vanished from his lungs and didn’t notice Derek had stopped walking until he ran into his back.

“We should stay here tonight,” Derek said, ignoring Stiles and checking the nearby trees as indifferently if he were checking for light switches left on. “We’re still close to the border and I don’t want to go any deeper into the forest when it’s getting dark like this.”

“Fine by me.” Stiles sank down at the base of the nearest tree and shed his backpack, cracking his neck anxiously. He swung the bag up into his lap and wrapped his arms tightly around it before closing his eyes. He breathed in slowly, willing himself to think about other things, things that had nothing to do with how his dad might look when he finally found Stiles’ empty Jeep parked in the woods.

“Is there anything useful in there?” Derek asked. Stiles opened his eyes to see Derek lowering himself down against a tree opposite him. He gestured at Stiles’ lap. “Your backpack.”

“Oh, I thought you meant your man purse,” Stiles retorted, welcoming the distraction as he unzipped his pack. “Nothing special. I do have a lighter and a pocketknife, though. We could make smores.”

“We’re not making a campfire,” Derek said firmly. “It’s not a good idea.”

Stiles made a face and continued to rifle through the chaos at the bottom of his backpack. “Hey, the greatest, most valuable item of them all – deodorant!” He waved it in the air triumphantly, trying to ignore Derek’s withering stare. “Aw, c’mon. I thought it was funny.”

“It’s…helpful,” Derek admitted grudgingly. “If you plan on being here a while.”

“Yeah, I hear my musk is pretty overwhelming, sexually, I mean. It’s really a service to the world, keeping it covered up with the smell of,” he glanced at the stick, “fresh rain. Really? Anyway. I wouldn’t want you and your wolf nose overcome with desire or anything; that would make this whole road trip thing kinda awkward for me.”

“Yeah, it’s really hard to control myself,” snapped Derek. “Nothing attracts werewolves like the pungent combination of sweaty locker room and Axe body spray. I’ll keep it together, though. I wouldn’t want to ruin your fantastic road trip.”

“Well, fuck you too, sourwolf,” Stiles shot back, zipping his backpack up angrily, or as angrily as anyone can zip anything. “You smell like wet dog about 90% of the time anyway.”

Stiles crossed his arms furiously over his chest and clamped his eyes shut again, letting the sudden flare of anger wash over him and settle in the pit of his stomach like a dead weight. Fucking _fine_ , then. He couldn’t have gotten stranded in another world with _anyone_ , literally _anyone_ else? Scott, Lydia, Allison, _anyone_. Maybe not Jackson, considering the mass murder and deep soul love connection with Stiles’ future wife and queen Lydia, and the probably still valid restraining order.

So there was that, he thought unenthusiastically. At least he wasn’t stranded with the last person on earth he wanted to spend extended amounts of time with camping in an enchanted forest.  Just possibly the second to last.

But that wasn’t even true, said the disloyal voice in Stiles’ head. If he felt like being honest with himself he could probably make a very long list of people more repulsive to him than Derek Hale. At least Derek was, on occasion, useful.

Stiles sighed and reluctantly cracked open one eye. What little light had been left when they stopped for the night was all but gone, and Derek was just a dim outline against the other tree. Stiles eyed Derek cautiously. All the energy and rage that had been powering Derek since the moment he crawled out of the brush that afternoon had leeched out of him. He wasn’t looking at Stiles, but at some point up in the leafy canopy, head resting against the trunk behind him. Stiles wanted to close his eyes again, to look away, but he felt some more stupid words pressing up into his throat from his chest.

“I am, you know.” Stiles coughed, feeling immensely grateful for Derek’s firm stance against campfires in enchanted forests. He wasn’t sure how great werewolf night vision was, but he sincerely hoped it wasn’t any better than his own right now.  He couldn’t see any expression on Derek’s face, and making a confession to empty blackness was so much easier when he could pretend his own face was hidden as well.

“What?” asked the disembodied voice of Derek. “That sentence needs a noun, Stiles.”

Stiles exhaled. “Freaking out, I’m freaked out. This is…not exactly how I wanted my week to go. Or the rest of my brief but brilliant life, really.” He tore at the rough edge of a ragged fingernail. “I mean, come on. Ten to one I get eaten by a dragon before lunch tomorrow when I take a leak too close to his stash of gold.”

Derek chuckled. “I doubt it.”

“Are you kidding? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, what with your werewolf Hulk strength, but I’m actually about as breakable as a Hummel figurine.” Stiles held his breath and wished he could suck the words back into his mouth. _Too much._

“Stiles, of all people, if you go off into the woods and accidentally pee on dragon gold, you’ll come back with your arms full after having convinced him to give you the stuff you _marked_.”

“Yeah, ha ha, you’re hilarious.” Stiles gnawed on his lower lip and flung himself backwards onto the ground, shoving his backpack under his head and punching it for good measure. “I’m going to sleep.”

 

The apple stuck in his throat, sharp and hard and acrid. Stiles coughed, clawed at his throat and tried to gasp _help, help_ but all that came out was a thin, strangled keening noise. He jerked when he woke like he’d been falling, finding himself face-down on the forest floor with his arms tangled up in the straps of his backpack and a leaf clinging to the corner of his mouth.

“I was going to let you sleep for a little longer,” said Derek from somewhere above him. “I was enjoying the quiet.”

“Ahhh,” Stiles said flatly, stretching his arms out and testing his stiff muscles, “starting the day off right.” He rose gingerly, brushing dirt and leaves off his front, and turned to face Derek.

“I can smell fresher air that way, towards the north,” Derek said, where he clearly meant to say _good morning, Stiles, I hope you slept well on your leaf mattress_ , and nodded his head at the woods behind Stiles. “We’ll keep heading that way and see what we find.”

“I can see _you_ slept well.” Stiles ignored the low groan emanating from his stomach.

“I don’t need to sleep as much as you do.” Derek said curtly. “You should eat something.”

“Oh,” said Stiles, pieces of his brain kicking into gear, “so you already…” He waved his hand at the woods and managed not to finish with _left me asleep, alone, in an Enchanted Forest while you went out for squirrel kebabs._

Derek smiled one of those cold, predatory smiles that never reached his eyes. “Would you like me to bring something back for you? You’ve done dissections in class by now, right?”

“Bleaugh,” Stiles said, grimacing, and the corner of Derek’s mouth twitched.  “Is the new theme for today going to be ‘gross out Stiles,’ because that seems to be one of your favorite pastimes.”

“That’s always the theme.” Derek picked up the backpack and pushed it into Stiles’ chest. “You can eat Red Vines on the road. Let’s go.”

 

The air crackled with magic. Stiles could identify it now. He couldn’t get used to it, but he knew he could recognize it. He had long since given up wondering if it was affecting Derek the same way. At least a dozen times he’d watched the wolf ahead of him bristle visibly as he passed certain trees and two steps later Stiles felt the wave of pressure on his skin as he passed the same tree. It felt like an invisible breath on his skin, like a breath and a pull at the same time. The only thing he could think to compare it to was a plasma ball he remembered from his sixth grade field trip to the science museum. Scott had been too nervous to touch it at first, but Stiles had loved the soft brush of the energy through the downy hair on his arms and immediately planted both hands on the warm glass surface.

The feeling of being watched had only gotten worse. Stiles could hear whispers in the forest now. He wished he could take his hands off the plasma ball and have it all disappear.

“Hey,” he began cautiously. “So. You know that Michael Jackson song?”

Derek turned sharply and drew a finger across his throat, glaring. _I know_ , he mouthed, and then something that might have been a sentence or might have been _watermelon watermelon_ in grand theater tradition.

 _What_ , Stiles mouthed back, shaking his head.

Derek closed the distance between them in two steps. “I _said_ ,” he growled in a low voice, ”I _know_ , it’s been watching us for a while and quit calling attention to yourself.”

“That’s a lot to convey with just a hand gesture and some glaring.” Stiles swallowed hard. “So we just keep going then and pretend we aren’t being stalked?”

“Pretty much.” Derek gave him a hard look before setting off again and Stiles followed, suddenly unable to remember how his arms and legs usually moved when he wasn’t being stalked by unidentified murderous beasts. Possibly bloodthirsty unicorns.

Time passed. It could have been an hour, it could have been three, but without a clear line of sight to the sun above Stiles had no idea how long they had been walking.  He was running out of ways to distinguish one bit of forest from another. Derek hadn’t looked back at Stiles since they had last spoken. It was beginning to grate on him.

Suddenly Derek paused mid-step and turned, narrowing his eyes at a point between the trees to their right. Stiles saw his eyes flash red as he breathed deeply, sniffing the wind. It reminded Stiles of a police dog, but he decided to keep that observation to himself.

“What now?”

“There’s something over there,” Derek said, sounding unsure.

“Like,” Stiles dropped his voice, “that Michael Jackson thing we aren’t talking about?”

Derek shook his head. “Something different.”

Stiles took a step beyond Derek and felt a strange stillness in the air, like the absence of something intangible.  “There’s less magic this way, I think,” he said slowly.

Derek looked at him sharply but nodded. He followed Stiles this time, looking over his shoulder every few steps as Stiles led them both through the forest. Soon the mossy ground and towering trees gave way to a perfectly manicured expanse of grassy lawn. It was as if they had stumbled upon a golf course in the middle of nowhere. This, Stiles decided, was the most unsettling thing he’d encountered since the talking bird.

“What,” said Derek, bending down to brush the grass with his palm. “It’s been mowed.” He sniffed the air. “I smell …flowers?”

Stiles shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine, but if we turn that corner and find anything that looks even a little bit like a candy house I suggest running.”

The lawn stretched out before them, ringed on all sides with trees and curving just out of sight. As they rounded a corner they found themselves faced with a large stone building surrounded by sculpted bushes. To the front of the building Stiles could see a private road ringing an elaborate running fountain as it led up to the doors.

“This is,” Derek said quietly, “among the weirder things we’ve seen in the past day and a half.”

“Probably some hunting lodge for rich weirdoes, right?” said Stiles, his mouth quirking. A horrible yet irresistible idea took hold. “C’mon, let’s go ring the doorbell.”

“What?” Derek looked aghast.

“Look,” began Stiles as a wild grin spread across his face. He turned to face Derek but kept walking backwards towards the front door, “they can’t murder us without ruining their beautiful lawn, and besides,” Stiles winked, “who’s afraid of the Big Bad Wolf, right? It’ll be fine!”

“You’re an idiot,” replied Derek, but followed. The front of the building was impressive. Columns carved with stags and what looked like unicorns framed the doors, which were at least three times Stiles’ height and looked as if they could withstand at least a light siege. Elaborately sculpted topiaries ringed the fountain they saw from the side. As they walked up to the doors Stiles saw an oversized brass knocker hanging below a sign reading “Weary Travelers Knock for Entry.” Stiles leaned closer to read the smaller print below: “for off-season requests, or after-hours emergency aid see service entrance in back.”

“What is this place?” asked Derek, eyeing the door suspiciously.

“About to find out!” Stiles shook out his arms and shifted excitedly from one foot to the other. His stomach roared enthusiastically.

Derek looked like he was undecided between murdering Stiles and fleeing for the trees. “This is a terrible idea.”

“Look,” Stiles said, spreading his hands, “this is the only place we’ve found so far that might have actual _people_ in it. So far all we’ve done is talk to magic birds and walk through a really creepy forest. And I don’t know about you but I’d rather know what we’re dealing with and _this_ looks clean and tidy enough that someone might live here, _so_ …” He trailed off, looking expectantly at Derek. “Do you want to knock?” Stiles reached for the enormous door knocker. “This is some Wizard of Oz shit. You know, I’ve always wanted to really, like, grab on to a giant kn - “

Before Stiles could finish his admittedly half-assed dirty pun Derek reached over and slammed the door knocker so hard he could feel his eardrums vibrating. He yelped and clapped his hands over his ears, glaring murderously at a pained yet smug Derek. Stiles took pleasure in the thought that if the sound was that unpleasant to puny mortal ears Derek was probably stuck with a pounding migraine for the rest of the day.

A smaller door opened in the middle of the gigantic door, because of course it did, that’s always how these things work. Still shaking his head to rid himself of the ringing in his ears, Stiles took a step back as a disgruntled middle-aged man leaned out, lazily supporting himself against the doorjamb.

“Welcome to the Royal Hunting Lodge and Adventurer’s Retreat,” the man began wearily. “Would you be friends of the King or perhaps wayward travelers possibly delivered here from another world on a mysterious and vexing quest to return home?”

“Uh,” said Stiles. “I – what?”

“It’s the spiel,” the man explained with an exaggerated eye roll. “It’s stupid, really, but it’s the first thing you learn on your first day and everyone has to say it and everyone has to hear it and now you’ve heard it so you can just stop with whatever joke you’re about to make, _oh how did you know, oh thank you helpful stranger all I want to do is return home to shrimpland and see my little prawns again, you’ve saved me.”_

Stiles and Derek looked at each other, dubious expressions mirrored on their faces.

 “So what are you, just a couple of adventurer-ing idiots, then? Nah,” he said, changing his mind and waving a hand in Derek’s direction. “You’ve got some sort of brooding romantic hero knight thing going on, and this is, what, the stable boy? Did your squire fall ill at the last minute?”

Stiles frowned and said, “That seems unnecessary,” in the same breath as Derek’s disgustingly self-satisfied reply of, “Yep, stable boy, that’s right.”

He turned to Derek, trying to decide between outrage or delight at the reappearance of Derek’s sense of humor after its long long long hibernation, and was met with the most shit-eatingest smirk he’d ever seen.

Derek flashed the doorman a toothy grin. “Can you offer us food and shelter on our journey?”

“Certainly, good sir,” the doorman said, swinging the door wide. “My name is Terrence. Is this your first time taking refuge at the Royal Hunting Lodge and Adventurer’s Retreat, then?”

“I’m afraid so,” said Derek smoothly, and Stiles, glaring at his back, stepped after him into the hallway. “What’s the story behind the spiel?”

“Ah, you two, you’re probably far too young to remember, but before the king’s coronation, ten years ago? Apparently when the Troll King was on his rampage, King  - well, Prince then, I suppose –anyway, Prince Wendell got some help from a band of travelers who said they were from another world. Pretty far-fetched if you ask me, but it made enough of an impression that the King and his advisers set this whole thing up.”

“That’s…great,” said Stiles, finding his voice. “So this is like…a resort?”

Terrence sighed again, this time more annoyed. “To the weary adventurer and hero we offer up to two nights of shelter, two meals a day and free reversal of any and all curses, hexes or bewitchments accumulated on your standard journey through the Enchanted Forest, including but not limited to: accidental transmogrification, ill-effects of Midas touching and antidotes for the 10 most common poisons used by footpads and gypsies.” The speech was well-rehearsed and given without feeling, and Stiles found himself wondering if he might be allowed to look at a more detailed list of the curses, hexes or bewitchments that he would probably end up accumulating so he could mentally prepare.

“We do ask all adventurers to sign our guestbook, just in case of…incident,” Terrence said, aiming for delicate but landing somewhere in the realm of suspicious. He gestured to the impressive tome laid open on a nearby hall table, a peacock quill pen perched in an inkwell at its side.

“Of course,” Derek said, bending to sign. Stiles followed suit, ignoring Derek peering over his shoulder at what he was writing in the book.

“Right this way,” Terrence said and waved them on, but not before he, too, glanced warily at what they had written in the almighty guest book. The pair followed Terrence down the main hall lined with various gruesome tapestries.

“This is a hunting lodge?” asked Derek doubtfully, eyeing a particularly nasty piece depicting a wolf full of arrows.

“Seasonally,” answered Terrence, picking at a loose thread on his cuff.

 _What did I just say about rich weirdoes_ , mouthed Stiles, jerking his head at the tapestry.

“You needn’t worry about that,” Terrence said, having followed Derek’s gaze. “Wolves are creatures of honor in the Fourth Kingdom, but even so, they’re not often seen so close to the Second Kingdom.” Terrence stopped and indicated a much less imposing side corridor. “This is the entrance to the Adventurer’s Retreat. Down there and take the third left, please, and you’ll find yourself in the refectory.”

Stiles looked at Derek questioningly but Derek just raised an eyebrow and lifted his shoulders slightly. Terrence looked at them expectantly until Stiles took a half-hearted step in the direction of the refectory, causing Terrence to walk away so quickly he might as well have vanished.

“I guess play time with Terrence is over?” said Stiles to the empty air where Terrence had been seconds before.

“Come on,” Derek said, setting off down the corridor. “Let’s go get some food.”

“Refectory means _food_?” Stiles skipped to catch up. “Oh my God, I’m so hungry. I’ve never wanted curly fries so much in my entire _life_.”

“I know; I’ve been listening to your stomach for the past two hours.”

“Well, I can’t control these things.” The promise of food, real food, had definitely improved Stiles’ mood by about 200%.

Apparently refectory meant not only food, but cafeteria, and Stiles ate himself sick on roasted potatoes and braised beef. Derek muttered something about hibernating bears but Stiles was too delighted by the discovery of some really disgustingly sour red wine to care. There was one other person in the hall with them, a man with dark, wet-looking hair who sat quietly in the corner and looked annoyed whenever Stiles laughed too loudly.

Once Stiles was halfway to hammered and feeling a little green around the edges, a well-dressed page appeared out of nowhere to escort them to a nearby room lined with bunk beds. Stiles tried half-heartedly to claim the nearest top bunk but gave up after banging his shin on the ladder and crawled, resigned, onto the lower bed.

Stiles stared above him as the top bed creaked and groaned under Derek’s weight. “Hey,” he said fuzzily. “Watch it. I don’t want to wake up dead with 200 pounds of wolf on top of me.”

“You can’t wake up dead,” Derek grumped. “You’d just be dead.”

“Whatever. You know what I mean.” Stiles pressed his face into his pillow. “So this is weird, right?” he said, muffled. “This is like a fairy-tale adventurer’s hostel.”

“It’s not unheard of,” said Derek somewhat reluctantly. “There are similar customs with us.”

“With _us_ ,” Stiles repeated, and yawned deeply. “What _us_? Are you sharing your wolfly knowledge now? I thought share-time was verboten with you.”

“It’s not…” Derek began quietly. “We give refuge to our kind when we can. The larger packs more than others. My mother kept a room open.”

Stiles held his breath, suddenly fearful. “I’m sorry,” he said, because it was the only thing to say, but his chest felt tight, like something inside wanted to leap out and go to Derek and say _I_ _know_ without speaking.

Derek said nothing. Stiles heard him breathing, deep and even, and wondered if the wolf was already asleep, but then Derek spoke. “I read what you put in the guestbook.”

“Oh yeah?” Stiles replied, giddy and grateful.

Derek sounded choked, almost like he was stifling a laugh. “Your first name is Fitzwilliam?”

Stiles laughed too loudly, the sound bouncing off the stone walls. “Nah,” he said, grinning broadly. “It just seemed appropriate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Hunting lodge for rich weirdoes" is a reference to the Rocky Horror Picture Show.
> 
> So sorry this took forever to go up. I got sidetracked by Dragon*Con and this section ended up being a whole lot longer than I initially estimated.


End file.
